The Betrayer
by Bebop Cowboy
Summary: Got the prologue, now starts Book One: The Golden Hordes of Fulva
1. Default Chapter

Prologue  
  
It was winter in Mossflower Country. The woods lay blanketed by snow. A layer of frost covered the sands around the mountain fortress of Salamandastron. Even the great River Moss lay still, a sheet of ice covering its great length. Inside Redwall Abbey every mouse, mole, otter, squirrel, and hedgehog sat in Great Hall, playing games, taking food and drink, or dancing lively jigs. Old beasts laughed at the antics of the Abbey young ones, known collectively as Dibbuns. Cheer was in the air and everybeast was breathing it in.   
  
Everybeast that is, except for one.  
  
He was an old otter, gray beyond his seasons. He sat in an ancient, over-stuffed armchair, facing the fire turning to embers in the hearth. The warmth, along with the silence inside the gatehouse, was slowly lulling him into a peaceful slumber. The otter was jerked back in to wakefulness by the sound of the gatehouse door creaking open. Not even bothering to look at the pair standing in the doorway, he addressed them. "Come in out of the cold, Banksand. You too, Pikeson."   
  
The two otters, one male, the other female, walked in, carrying between them a large pot. They set it down near the fire to keep it warm.  
  
"Grandpa," said Banksand, warming her paws near the fire, "how'd you know it was us?"  
  
"Easy, missie. You're the only two in all of Mossflower who don't knock when y'enter!"  
  
The young male, Pikeson, chuckled as he ladled up a steaming concoction from the pot resting near the hearth. "Friar tol' us to come here straight away, sir. Said t'bring you lunch, or you'd waste away to a shadder."  
  
"A shadder, eh?" asked the otter cheerfully. "With the amount of 'otroot soup yer servin' me, I'll be the fattest shadder in all Mossflower Woods."  
  
Pikeson handed the bowl to his grandfather. Turning, he went to join his sister near the fire. The old one took a long sip from the bowl, commenting on it as he did. "Friar made this did 'e? Figures. Takes an otter t'make a half-decent 'otroot soup. Not nearly enough shrimp. Nor 'otroot fer that matter. Ahh, never you mind. Send 'im my compliments when y'leave. He set the bowl on the arm of the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He questioned the pair standing by the fire; "But you two ain't going back quite so soon, are ye?"   
  
Banksand answered hesitantly, "Papa said that since it's snowing and all our chores are done, that you'd tell us a story."   
  
The otter rose, glaring sharply at the two. "A story? You want me to tell you a story?" he said angrily. "You wake a body from 'is rest and expect a story?  
  
Both otters looked at the floor, avoiding the stern gaze of their elder. His expression changed from one of anger to one of merriment. "I was just jesting wit you two. No need to go moping about like a coupl'a beetles on bathday. There ain't nothing better to do on a snowy day than tell a story. Git yerselves some o'that soup an' come sit by the fire."  
  
The two did as they were bidden, sitting on two large cushions. The old one threw an oak log on the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. He sat back in his chair with a sigh.   
  
"I've lived many a season," he began, "and seen many strange things. Stars that have fallen to earth. Waters that stretch beyond horizon. Even creatures bigger than this abbey! But nothing has changed me more than three beasts I met when I was only a young'n. They was a squirrel, an otter, and a hare. They taught me many a thing: how to eat, how to fight. But most importantly, they taught me what friendship is. Are ye both comfortable? All right then. Let's begin."  
  
  
  
Well, there we go. My first attempt at a Redwall fic. Hopes ya like it. Please R & R. 


	2. 1

Chapter One  
  
Far on the western shores of Mossflower stood the mountain of Salamandastron. Once inhabited by fire and molten rock, it had long since cooled and was now the home of badgers lords and hares. Lord Urthwyte sat on a ledge high on the mountainside, scanning the northern horizon. He was a strange badger, having snow-white fur and no head stripes. Beside him, a hare leapt about, throwing punches and ducking imaginary foes. Continuing his gaze to the north, Urthwyte addressed the hare. "Do you see them, Sapwood?"  
  
"Aye, sir, I do," the hare said, still concentrating on the invisible vermin he was boxing.  
  
"Its Vulpes, isn't it, Sap?" inquired the badger.  
  
"Seems to be, wot! Few o'the runners say they've seen a bally old fox leading," remarked the hare. Sergeant Sapwood was every inch a veteran Long Patroller. Battle scars crisscrossed his body while medals decorated the beige jerkin he wore.   
  
Urthwyte continued to stare northward. After a short period he stood up and sighed, "This isn't good. The horde's marching southeast and Redwall Abbey is in that direction. Except for the Skipper and his otter crew, the Redwallers have no defenders."   
  
Sapwood stopped his antics temporarily and looked up at Urthwyte's snow-colored face. He noted the dangerous red glint in his lord's eyes. "D'you want me to take a force over to Redwall, sire?"  
  
"That's exactly what I was thinking. Take four with you and help the Redwallers prepare for an attack from those vermin. Pikkle Ffolger and Big Oxeye would be good choices. Maybe two Greenpaws as well."  
  
"Aye, sir. We'll leave first thing t'morrow at daybreak!" said Sapwood saluting smartly and briskly walking off towards the mess hall. As he crawled into an entrance on the hillside, he heard Urthwyte talking to himself. "One day, scum! One day you will pay for all the pain and hurt you have brought upon this land." Sapwood then felt the fur on his back rise as his lord emitted the time-honored battlecry of badgers and hares: "Eulaliaaaaaaaaa!"  
  
  
Meals in the Salamandastron's mess hall were no fancy affair. Creatures ate what they wanted and plenty of it. Hares are notorious scoffers and those at Salamandastron were no different. Sapwood filled a plate with potato and celery pie, cherry tarts and a beaker of Mountain Ale. He scanned the crowd seated around the dining tables until he found who he was looking for. He walked over to two hares, their plates piled high with food. They were deep in discussion when he arrived.   
  
"Are you sure you wanna try an' outscoff me, Oxeye?" asked Pikkle Ffolger, a young lean hare. Although his body didn't show it, Pikkle was the greatest scoffer Salamandastron had seen in dozens of seasons.   
  
The hare opposite him nodded. "Sure do, Pikkle," replied the large hare. "I'm sure I can beat ye this time."   
  
"Alright, old chap. D'you still remember the rules in your old age?" Pickle laughed.   
  
"Aye, I does you young snip! We tuck in until we can't scoff anymore an' plates with food on 'em don't count as done. Most plates wins."  
  
Both beasts shook paws and went at it with a will, while Sapwood watched. Soon, a crowd had gathered and began to cheer the two hares on.   
  
"C'mon, Oxeye! You can win it this time!"  
  
"Nah, he won't. Ffolger's got a stomach on 'im like he's survived a seven-season famine."   
  
"Oxeye's gonna win. I seen Pikkle scoff a whole tray of scones only a while back."  
  
In the end, it was Pikkle who turned out to be the victor. Hares clapped him heartily on the back and shook his paw. Oxeye dropped a tart clumsily. "Ho! Good scoff, young one. But I'll beat you nex' time. I swears I will."   
  
Pikkle bowed, proudly accepting the applause. Still stuffing the odd bit of food in his mouth, he exclaimed, "Thank you, thank you. All in a days work for a Ffolger. Oh, hullo, Sap! Wot're you doing here? Come to try and beat me in a scoff?"   
  
Although there were cheers of approval for Pikkle's comment, Sapwood waved the audience away. "Actually, mate, we're taking a patrol," replied Sapwood after the crowd had dispersed. "Ol' Whiteghost wants us to rally the bally old defenders."   
  
Oxeye asked, trying to chew through the tart he had dropped, "What defenders?"  
  
"Why, the ones at Redwall, chap! The fox's horde, y'know, the ones we gave a jolly ole drubbin' to a few seasons ago? They're headin' in that direction. If we don't help organize the Redwallers, they could be taken over," said Sapwood through a piece of pie.   
  
A dreamy look crossed the face of Pikkle and he twisted his ears together. "This is fanbloomintastic! I haven't had Redwall vittles for seasons," he exclaimed.   
  
Big Oxeye was no less excited, but he managed to contain it. "Who's going? Us three?"  
  
"Aye," replied Sapwood. "An' two Greenpaws as well. I was thinking Twobob and Shortears. They're both young, but they have the experience. I still need to talk with them."  
  
"Alright. When do we leave?" inquired Pikkle, rubbing his paws together in anticipation of the famous Redwall dishes.   
  
Sapwood finished off his last tart and addressed the two hares, "Tomorrow at dawn. Be ready."  
  



	3. 2

Chapter 2  
  
Extracts from the writings of Samkim, Father Abbot of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country.  
  
  
Ah, what a beautiful autumn day. I can truly say that this my favorite season and so I've named it; The Autumn of the Abbot's Delight. The sound of leaves crunching below you paws. The beautiful colors the leaves turn. The autumn air even seems to make the food taste better. Speaking of food, our Autumn Feast has been going on for two days so far and there seems to be no end in sight! I'm sure we've eaten enough food to run out twice, but Friar Dumble says that the stocks are still near full. Right now I sit under a tree in the orchard, my belt slackened, paws ink-stained, watching the going-on about me. Many of my old friends are here. Arula Foremole and Thrugg the otter are digging a pit for tonight's bonfire. Droony the Cellarmole and Mara, our Badgermother, are playing with a group of Dibbuns. I can see three of our young ones playing up on the battlements. They are Fernbank, daughter of Thrugg, Riverdip, Skipper's son and Methuselah, a young orphaned mouse we took in a few seasons ago. Alas, a few old friends are gone. Old Abbess Vale passed on to Dark Forest last summer. The Spinneys went within two days of each other during the winter. Those two always said that they couldn't live without each other. All three lived longer than their seasons should have allowed: this feast is a tribute to their memory. But enough of this writing; you feast at a feast, not scribble some dusty old book.  
  
  
  
Samkin closed the book and slowly stood up. He ambled over to the tables covered in dishes worthy of Redwall fame. Cheeses, ranging in color from dark yellow to pale white and studded with nuts and celery, sat, several large wedges cut out. Hotroot soup, a favorite of otters, sat next to the moles' famous deeper'n'ever turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie. Friar Dumble had prepared a huge loaf nicknamed Vale Bread that he studded with chestnuts. All kind of drink was present as well: dandelion fizz, chestnut brown beer, the famous Redwall October Ale, raspberry cordial, greensap milk, scupperjuice. Despite the two days of feasting, most of the food was still on the table. Samkin grabbed a cherry tart as Arula, the Foremole, waddled over from the fire pit.   
"Hullo, Father H'abbot, zurr," she said, tugging her snout. " Still fillin' yourn tum, oi see. Soon youm be bigger than thoi Abbey Oi be thinkin', hurr hurr."  
  
Samkin laughed as he bit into the tart. "Arula, my old friend, you can be a pitiless creature sometimes. Perhaps I should have named this season the Autumn of the Mole's Torment," he added in mock sorrow. "Why, if I had a tum half the size of Thrugg's here, I could survive a seven season famine!"   
  
"Actually," remarked Thrugg, who had just walked up, "it looks like you could survive a few season's longer than that, Abbot." He patted the Abbot's stomach playfully.   
  
Samkin glared at the otter, a look of indignation on his face. "You young rip! I should skelp the fur right off ye!"   
  
"Considerin' the size o'me tum, it'd be a long skelping, sir," laughed Thrugg.  
  
Arula put her paws through the arms of Thrugg and Samkin. "Oi cudd sklep 'ee tails offen both of youm with both moi diggin' claws ahind moi back!"  
  
"Hee hee," giggled Samkin. "It'd take me and Thrugg four full seasons t'skelp the fur off you, Arula."  
  
The three friends walked arm in arm through the fallen leaves of red towards Great Hall, unaware of the oncoming threat that would soon visit their abbey. The threat from a fox and his vermin horde. The threat from a traitor to Redwall. The threat that would turn the Abbey's ground red, not with leaves, but with blood.  
  
  
Thrugger the otter, although smaller and younger than his brother Thrugg, looked very similar to him. He shook the dew off his damp brown fur and looked up at the Redwall Abbey. His brown eyes scanned the battlements looking for someone to let him in. "H'lo! Is anybody home?" he shouted.   
  
A young otter popped her head over the wall. "Hi, uncle Thrugger," she hollered down.  
  
Thrugger squinted in the mid-afternoon sunlight. "Well, if it ain't me favorite niece in the whole world!   
  
Fernbank giggled, "I'm your only niece, uncle Thrugger!"  
  
"Aye, mebbe so, but you're still my favorite. Think ye could let me in, missie?"  
  
"Sure thing. I'll go get daddy!" She turned to the mouse and otter sitting next to her. "C'mon, you two!" She grabbed their paw and pulled him up. They raced along the battlements and down the stairs. They scanned the tables looking for Thrugg. Methuselah pointed.   
  
"Dere he be! With Fatha H'abbot an' 'Rula." They ran over and greeted their elders in unison, "Hello, Father Abbot! Hello, missus Foremole!"  
  
Thrugg swept Fernbank into his arms. "Wot's the matter, missie?"  
  
"Uncle Thrugger's at th'gate and wants let in."  
  
"Well then, we better go an' let him in, eh?" Thrugg placed his daughter on his shoulders and began strolling towards the gatehouse. He turned back. "You two coming with us?" he asked Riverdip and Methuselah.  
  
Riverdip ran to catch up, but Methuselah stayed back. "I needa tell Fatha H'abbot 'bout sumpting. I sees you later."  
  
"Very well then, young'n," said Thrugg. He turned to Samkin, "See you later, Father Abbot. You too, Foremole, marm." He, Fernbank and Riverdip walked off, chattering amongst themselves.   
  
"Hurr, Oi, must be agoing too, zurr. Moi molers and Oi gotta finish up thee foirepitter furr tonoight." Arula tugged her snout and left.   
  
Samkin looked down at the mouse beside him. "So, Methuselah, you have something to tell me?" He smiled at the Dibbun's enthusiastic nod. "Well then, let's go sit at a table and have some raspberry cordial while we're at it, eh?"  



	4. 3

Chapter Three  
  
Dawn broke softly over the vermin horde bringing with it a bright sun. Weasels, ferrets, rats and stoats rose from their sleep and broke their fast with porridge warmed over the fire or any fruit they could find along the woodland border. They all wore golden colored jerkins. The jerkins served a double purpose: to show they were part of the Golden Hordes of Vulpes Fulva and so they would not strike each other in combat. Five stoats stood by the biggest fire, leaning on spears. These were Vulpes' captains, and they wore golden capes to show their rank.   
  
A weasel named Gilleyes sat alone by one of the fires, eating porridge out of a seashell. He was a strong looking beast, muscular, but not overly so. Tattoos covered his arms and his right ear hung half on, half off his head. He brought the shell close to his face, trying to eat the mess before it cooled. A rough paw pushed shoved in the back and his snout dipped into the mixture. He pulled it out, sputtering,   
"Who did that?"  
  
"I did, blubberbottom!" said a voice behind him. Gilleyes turned and saw the culprit, Lousefur. Lousefur was a rat, lithe and mangy.   
  
"Wot did ye do that for? I could've choked t'death!" exclaimed Gilleyes, his paw slowly reaching for the dagger in his belt.  
  
"If only I was that lucky," sneered the rat. "Then I wouldn't have to bother with you trippin' over me backpaws every time we march."  
  
Gilleyes lunged suddenly, the point of the dagger stretched toward the rat's throat. The blade was knocked aside by a mailed paw. Gilleyes reached for his blade but stopped when he saw the fox gazing disdainfully down at him.   
  
"What is this about?" asked the fox. Both creatures looked at their leader, both admiration and fear in their eyes. Vulpes Fulva was a magnificent beast. Tall and powerful, handsome and charismatic, the black fox was a natural leader. A green cloak hung over the red jerkin and golden armor crafted especially for him. His paw strayed towards the large jeweled axe hanging at his side. His anger began to rise. "I said, what is this about?"   
  
Lousefur and Gilleyes began to speak, the words falling from their mouths.  
  
"'E dunked my face in me porridge an-"  
  
"That weasel put a carp in my bedroll!"  
  
"Only 'cause 'e calls me names!"  
  
"Enough of this!" shouted Vulpes. He grabbed both beasts by their necks and held them off the ground. "If I hear anymore whining from either of you, I will see to it that both of you are, let us say," the fox smiled, showing a row of white teeth, "taken care of. Do you understand me?" Gilleyes and Lousefur nodded dumbly, their bodies shaking with fear.   
  
The fox slammed the two into each other and dropped them on the ground. Lousefur scrambled away from his leader. Vulpes looked down on Gilleyes. "You, go and look after that squirrelmaid you're taking care of. Gilleyes grabbed his dagger as he went. The fox laughed as he saw Gilleyes run. He shouted, "That's right! Nobeast disobeys the orders of Vulpes Fulva!" Hordebeasts began to clamor around the fox. "And why is that?"  
  
The horde answered back in unison, "Because Vulpes Fulva is leader of the Golden Hordes!"  
  
Vulpes called, "And if they choose to disobey, as did that squirrel and his tribe?"  
  
"Then they shall meet Brockkill, the taker of life!"  
  
Vulpes smiled. "That is correct! Captains!"  
  
The five stoats rushed towards Vulpes. "Line up your troops! We march! On to Redwall Abbey!"  
  
The captains called out orders and fires were extinguished. The horde quickly formed ranks and began marching. A cloud of dust slowly rose behind them. The whole while they chanted; "Redwall! Redwall! Destroy! Vulpes! Vulpes! Vulpes Fulva!"  
  
  
A league or so south of the horde, a lone figure crested a hill. He stumbled this way and that. Wounds caked with dried blood covered his body. The bushy tail that showed him to be a squirrel was near gone. He gave a cry of pain and fell. Rolling down the hill, he was stopped by a rock. He lay quite still, his breath shallow. He coughed fitfully aa the world slowly turned black.  



	5. 4

Chapter Four   
  
On the fringes of Mossflower, a small fire burned. Bodies lay around it, trying to keep warm. Only one beast, Sergeant Sapwood, was awake. He stared into the fire, thinking about the battle that was destined to come. Alone, Vulpes was a dangerous beast, as was every member of his horde. But Brockkill was a different matter. Sapwood shuddered at the memory of the beast. Larger than anything he had seen, Brockkill was a sight. At the battle for Salamandastron only three seasons earlier, Brockkill had slain three veteran hares, single-pawed. Only through a miracle had the hares beat back the horde.   
  
"This isn't going to be easy," Sapwood muttered to himself.   
  
"Ay, sah. It won't."   
  
Sapwood looked up at the voice. Twobob stood there, leaning on her spear, eyes twinkling in the firelight. The young hare smiled. "Come to take over guard duty, sah."  
  
The sergeant stood up with a grunt. "Well then, off t'sleep with me, eh?" He passed the Greenpaw, stopping to ask a question. "Twobob, d'you remember the battle with Vulpes' horde?"  
  
She shifted uneasily. "Yes, sah. Even though I was still a leveret."  
  
"D'you remember those hares he killed?"  
  
"Yes. One of them was my pater, sah," she replied, her voice quavering.   
  
"I want you to remember that when we're fighting." The sergeant placed a paw on the hare's shoulder. "Your father, those hares, fought to keep you alive and free. Do the same for the Redwallers when the time comes, even if it means your death. Please." He removed his paw and walked to the fire, laying down in his bedroll. With a sad sigh, Twobob sat down on a tree stump. She wiped her eyes and began the watch.   
  
  
Deep in Redwall's cellars, Droony the mole awoke. He scratched his stomach and rose from the large half-barrel he called bed. His nose twitched and he smiled. "Hurr, deeper'n'ever poi baking oop in 'e kitchers." He climbed the cellar stairs.   
  
"Foremole won' moind Oi taking some poi, so long as Oi don't tell it were Oi," he laughed to himself. He opened the oven door, inhaling at the rich scent of the pie inside. He cut out a piece and placed the pie back in the oven. Giggling like a Dibbun, he took the piece to Cavern Hole, where he was surprised to see the Abbot. Tugging his snout, he greeted Samkin. "Burr, hullo, zurr."  
  
Samkin looked up. "Oh, hello, Droony. Having some of Foremole's pie, I see."  
  
Droony grinned sheepishly. "Yes, zurr. 'Tis gurtly tasty. Why be you'm up at this toime o'night?"  
  
Samkin was silent for a long time before he spoke. "Methuselah had a dream last night. In it, beasts of gold were fighting us, here at Redwall. But that wasn't the worst part. A huge beast, totally black was killing many, but could not be hurt itself."  
  
"Sounds loike a dreamer to Oi, Father."  
  
"It did to me too, Droony, but I then remembered a story about a horde of beasts who wore golden clothes and traveled the world. It was said they managed to capture a beast so dangerous that it killed a badger be itself. We all know that Methuselah is kind of strange. He has great intellect and insight, even though he's still a Dibbun. So I thought that maybe this wasn't a dream, but a premonition."  
  
"So, you'm be thinkin' that we moight be attackered by evilbeasts?"  
  
The abbot nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. I've sent Thrugg to go get Skipper and his otter crew already. Please, Droony, tell nobeast about this. I don't want anybeast worried."  
  
"Moi lips be sealed, Abbot."   
  
Samkin placed his paw over Droony's. "Thank you friend. Now, I'm off to bed. You better go to when you finish that pie."   
  
  
The squirrel woke with the sun. One eye caked over with blood, he looked about him. Smoke rose over a wooded area a few hundred yards east. He pulled himself up on the rock and limped toward the small wood. Deep inside, the rage began to build.   



End file.
